The Universalist. [volume] (Chicago [Ill.]) 1884-1897, 1887-10-29

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make him suit, said Aunt Betsey, softly,
mentally taking his measure and talking
to herself.
IL do-Pd like to stay" breathed the
boy, as il such fortune were not for
him.
"Stay it is, then. see wife has already
settled it. You shall have a home here
as long-as long as you deserve it. Now
you'd better go to bed and rest"
Aunt Betsey's nimble fingers soon fur
nished him warm suit of clothes, and it
was really wonderful what change good
victuals and plenty of them made in his
pinched, old-looking face. He grew rosy
and plump. merry look frightened his
solemn eyes, but they were always filled
with loving glance for Aunt Betsey and
Uncle Abram, as he learned to call the
worthy couple, who grew to love him as
son.
"The Lord heard u.s." Aunt Betsey
would say, solemnly, whenever the sub
ject was mentioned. "He knew we warn't
fit to choose for ourselves, and he sent
us blessing in his own way. And you
wouldn't think it was the same boy now,
would you.
A year passed, and the deacon was
called to distant State by the illness of
brother.
Aunt Betsey was in despair.
"Not that I don't want you to go,
Abrsm," she said earnestly, but 1 most
know something'll happen. dreamt of
snakes last night. They was big ones
twisted around the cats, and you looking
out Of the car windows"
"Pho, wifel I thought you had more
sense, Betsey. Dreams never mean no.
thing" eaid the deacon, with more impa-
thence than he often showed; $50 did I
dream last night dreamt was dead"
"Therer'
swell, you are a fool ,ish woman, Bet.
sey. You're nervous, suppose. won't
be gone more than week, and there's
Frank to do the chores, you know"
"Y-e-e-s-" but it was evident enough
that Aunt Betsey's comfort went with
him.
The next day it began to rama dismal,
chilly downpour,as spring rains are apt to
be. The brown earth appeared in patches
on the hillsides, the river overlooked its
letters, then the weather gradually chang
ed, until the rain-soaked earth glittered
with frozen ice drops.
"It'll be nice skating if it freezes hard
enough" said Frank, who had been to the
bank to test the ice for the twentieth
time, and he looked longingly at the pair
of bright new skates.
"Don't try it till you're sure tbs safe,"
cautioned Aunt Betsey. It appears as if it
really wasn't done raining yet. We may
have another wet spell. Do the chores
as nice as you can, for, if nothing hap
pens your Uncle Abram will come in the
midnight train.
The boy did his work with light heart,
and made everything neat and tidy for the
deacon's inspection. Then he lay down
upon his bed with his clothes on, to be
ready to welcome him when he came, and
was soon asleep.
Aunt Betsey, too, slept soundly, in spite
of her anxiety.
Suddenly Frank started up. His room
was filed with red aickering light, and
the little window toward the river glowed
strangely. Just then the great clock down
stairs struck eleven heavy, measured
strokes. He sprsng from the bed and has
tened to the window; then he recoiled
with low cry of horror
The railroad bridge was on fire, and
Deacon Thomas was to come on the mid
night train.
There was not time to go to the lower
bridge, two miles further down the riv-
or and in a moment his plan was made.
He stole softly downstairs, snached his
skates from the nail behind the kitchen
stove, and crept out at the back door. He
didn't awaken Aunt Betsey. Maybe she
would not know until all was safe. Her
room was on the other side of the house
away from the fire.
Swiftly he ran along the road to the
village, quarter of mile away.
The villagers were gathered upon the
shore in excited groups. The women
we're weeping silently, and the men talk
ing in eager low tones.
at CAN'T be done. The ice amt much
thicker than window glass, and the
under ice is worse than none at all;
it is so rotten and full of air holes.
God help them, for we can't. The train
is almost due now. Deacon Thomas is
on board, too, they say"
"And so is my son." 1t was Squire
Davis, the richest man in the village that
spoke. Are you men to let them die be-
fore your eyes2 There must be some way.
I'll give q thousand dollars to the one
that stops that train. God, are you all
towards? There they come nowp
"Not towards, Squire, but it's certain
death to cross that ice, and we can't go
round by the lower bridge" answered
voice firmly, as the red, glowing head
light of the coming train rounded a curve
two miles away.
"They won't see the fire in season to
stop the train after they pass the last